


The Spanish Steps

by TheDanishGirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Diagon Alley, England (Country), Eventual Fluff, Eventual Sex, F/M, Italy, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Roma | Rome, Slow Build, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27943325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDanishGirl/pseuds/TheDanishGirl
Summary: Three years after the war Hermione has found peace in her life. She has her dream job, is engaged to Ron, and her parents have successfully regained their memory. All should be well.Draco has had some hard years. Lucius decides Draco’s fate like the generations before him. All should be well.Hermione and Ron travels to Rome to celebrate.Draco and his fiancée travels to Rome to work things out.They soon realise their differences. But will it make a difference? Or is it too late to turn back?I’ve said it before: I suck at summaries. Please forgive this attempt. I hope you’ll give this fic a chance anyway.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing but the plot - the characters and the universe is owned by J.K. Rowling.
> 
> As my username implies, I’m danish. English is my second language: mistakes are bound to happen – but please notify me – I’ll correct them as soon as possible. 
> 
> This is my second fic, and one I’m currently working on whenever I run headfirst into a writer’s block. I don’t know how often this will be updated, but I will try to update once a month.

Draco knew misery.

In fact, misery was an old friend of his.

It’d been misery – no, it had been a living hell – having The Dark Lord living in his home for what seemed like an eternity but in reality was nothing more than three years. The creature – Draco couldn’t call him a man, as he’d left humanity behind him – had cast a dark and cold shadow over the manor, had tainted every corner of every room with his presence. He’d endured torture by the hands of The Dark Lord, had witnessed heinous crimes against humanity: torture, murder, humiliation, slavery. All done to Muggleborns, Muggles or ‘Bloodtraitors’. Draco had tried to distance himself from the senseless violence, but he always felt sick whenever he escaped to his room.

The war, which had split the wizarding community in half, had been awful. So much death and destruction, meaningless. He’d lost friends too, family even – not that he cared much about Bellatrix’s death – but he’d mourned his estranged cousin, mourned the lost opportunity of reconnecting.

The year he’d spent in Azkaban while awaiting trial had been miserable, cold, and lonely, the only company the screams and tears of the fellow inmates which had echoed off the walls, always present, and the sound of the waves crashing against the cliff on which Azkaban was built, and the cold feeling the dementors gave had made him feel as if he’d never escape, like happiness had only ever been a distant dream, almost completely forgotten. Sometimes it was forgotten, lost somewhere in between the security of his childhood and now. The prison had been damp; the salt in the air made the clothes and blankets stiff and coarse, scratching his skin and made his hair cling together in big clumps. His skin had itched; showers only a distant dream. The food had barely been edible; the bread stale at best, mouldy when worst. And the warm water with few chunks of potatoes and some undiscernible type of meat they had passed off as soup had been disgusting at all times. Some nights, when the stars were hidden away by heavy blankets of clouds and the screams were too loud and the cold seeping into his bones, Draco feared for his sanity; he could almost sense his sanity as thin ice, always on the verge of breaking, like all it would take was a little push – or putting weight on it, dunking him in ice cold waters, unable to reach the surface and breathe. Or so it seemed.

Having the bespectacled idiot, Weasel, and Granger testify on his behalf had been humiliating. He didn’t need them to escape Azkaban. But he did. And it was miserable. He’d never liked them, and they’d never liked him in return. He was certain they’d only done it out of pity, something he certainly couldn’t bear were their pity; the audacity of it! No, they could stick their Gryffindor-softness up their arse. He didn’t need it. But he did.

Draco, along with his parents, was pardoned on several conditions. Every dark object his family owned would be confiscated, a tenth of their wealth would be confiscated as war compensation (every family with ties to The Dark Lord was demanded to pay) and house arrest: Draco got two years, his mother got one, and his father got seven. All their wands were confiscated, leaving them to live as Muggles. Or at least for a year, and then Narcissa would regain her wand. The ministry had wasted no time: they arrived at the manor a cold winter morning with frost in the air, demanding entrance and systematically searched the manor, finding each and every object which oozed even the smallest amount of dark magic. It took them almost nine months to cleanse the vast manor of any lingering dark magic. But still, the Manor felt marked, still tainted, still too cold.

As Draco had never finished his seventh year, he applied to return to Hogwarts; the ministry had been reluctant but had ultimately decided to allow it thanks to headmistress McGonagall. So Draco returned to Hogwarts September 1st when it was rebuild. Joining him were two ministry officials, their sole purpose to babysit him. ‘For your own protection’ they’d said though Draco knew they didn’t care two shits about him. They were there to make sure that he wouldn’t hurt any of the Muggleborns, though they never said it they might as well have; it had hung in the air, on everybody’s mind but escaping no one’s tongue.

At Hogwarts Draco had been allowed to do magic. For a limited time at least. He would hand in his wand to his babysitters an hour before dinner was being served and he would get it after breakfast, like he was a grounded child. It’d been annoying at best, humiliating when worst.

But the venom the other students spat in his direction had been belittling. He was no longer the uncrowned king of Hogwarts. His name no longer held any power there. Slurs had been slung in his direction and Draco had hidden away behind his shields: letting the block of ice come to the forefront of his mind. Letting the ice spread and fill out his veins it froze every emotion and making his face a blank slate. To the outside he was unfazed, like a marble sculpture, acting like his family’s fall from grace didn’t bother him. He’d done what he’d always done: hiding. Like a coward. Draco had graduated from Hogwarts with honours along with Granger. She had yet again bested him.

As he returned home from Hogwarts his house arrest was done. He was free to roam the world without babysitters and he’d taken the first opportunity to go to Diagon Alley. He’d never felt so exposed as when he stepped out of the floo and into The Leaky Cauldron. So many mean gleaming eyes and angry snarls in his direction. He’d scurried away, fleeing the room and expecting sanctuary on the street. He had been naïve. People on the street sneered, frowned, and yelled at him at the sight of him, and every person knew who he was, Pureblooded royalty that he was.

It had been misery that every single person loathed him and, though technically free to walk wherever his heart desired, he was imprisoned in his home.

Still he had endured the years of misery and humiliation. Because he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys were proud and resilient.

The Malfoys were fallen from grace in the public’s eyes. Fallen from grace but by no means insignificant. Even with a tenth of their fortune missing, they were still filthy rich. Should they decide to sell all their wineries in France and Italy, which were their main income, give up all their investments, they still wouldn’t need to work for several generations, and they would still maintain a very high standard of living. Yes, they were still a powerful family. So much so, that prominent Pureblood families still wanted to marry off their daughters and give them the Malfoy name. And this is what Draco was now enduring, a completely new form of misery, as he paced his room while his father, still in house arrest and without a wand, negotiated with the proud Florian Greengrass.

Yes, Draco knew misery. And the prospect of marrying Daphne was misery. He’d always disliked Daphne. Back when they’d gone to school together, he’d disagreed with her views on Muggles, Muggleborns, Halfbloods, and Squibs. How very right she’d been after all. Not a very pretty girl, her face a bit too square, her button nose too big, and lips too thin to Draco’s taste. She had pretty eyes though, a dark blue which contrasted nicely with her blond hair, the colour of wheat. She hadn’t been the cleverest of the bunch, scoring below average, but completely unable to have an intellectual discussion. But her personality had been off-putting, and Draco preferred the company of a dementor; always whiny, always needy of attention, always in a horrible mood snapping at everyone and crying too much, never finding anything funny, never laughing.

 _Father can’t make me marry the bitch. I’ll refuse,_ though Draco knew he’d never been able to stand up to Lucius. Deep in thought he hadn’t realised he’d stopped pacing his room, standing in front of a window and glancing at the gardens.

He resumed the pacing.

 _This time will be different_ , he promised himself. This time, he would refuse, he would claim his right to choose his own wife, to choose his own life. He would remind Lucius of how wrong everything had turned out to be when he’d decided what was best for Draco.

A loud pop interrupted Draco mid step. Poppy, the house elf whom had been in his family the longest, stood in the middle of his room, wringing her ear in her hands. Her big brown eyes were downcast, refusing to even so much to look at Draco.

“Master’s asked Poppy to fetch Master Draco. Master say’s for you to join him at his study immediately,” she announced in her squeaky voice. She disappeared before he managed to thank her.

With heavy steps Draco walked the halls of his ancestorial home feeling the many eyes from the portraits following his every step, his every breath, with anticipation; he would accept the marriage, would continue the Malfoy line of Pureblood wizards and witches, would do his duty and marry a respectable witch, pure of blood and add to the fortune with either gold or important business connections. He was twenty-one and unmarried, something unheard of in Pureblood circles. Something his ancestors didn’t approve of. Their silent judgement felt suffocating. How much had their bigotry ruined?

Not this time, he would refuse. He would.

He walked mechanically, feeling like every step sealed his future.

He would refuse. He would march in, politely greet the men and refuse the offered chair. Lucius would be displeased, but Draco would remain standing. Annoyed, Lucius would begin to state the manner of Mr Greengrass’ visit, proclaim how it was Draco’s duty to accept the offer and marry the girl. And this would be the moment that Draco said no. Yes, he would refuse Daphne, refuse his duty. He would be a grown man.

A sharp knock on the mahogany door which led to Lucius Malfoy’s study.

“Enter.” Not a request, no it was a command. Draco allowed himself a deep breath, feeling the ice in his veins as he slipped behind his shield of ice, not even realising how easily he turned to the magic.

Lucius study was washed in bright sunlight, banishing every shadow which usually roamed here. Not even the gloomy ghosts of the past were present as the warm summer sun burned through them. So much pain, so much sorrow had been caused in this very room by Voldemort. And on a day like this, it was almost as if it had never happened. Almost.

Lucius sat behind his desk, an elaborate piece of furniture with intricate carvings, in a matching chair, leaned back and radiated cool confidence. Lucius looked ever the aristocrat that he was; sharp features, expensive clothes, hard glint in his eyes, and chin held high. Yes, Lucius Malfoy was still proud, but Draco saw the shadows under his eyes, remnants of his time in Azkaban, never quite disappearing, and Draco remembered how broken Lucius had been the first time he’d returned from Azkaban with his untidy and greasy hair, stubbles which were several days old covering his chin, pale skin, sunken in cheeks, tremoring hands, and dark rings under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept for years. And Draco understood, he had experienced Azkaban as well.

On the other side of the desk sat Mr Greengrass. Mr Greengrass was the complete opposite of Lucius regarding physical appearances: where Lucius was blond, Mr Greengrass wore a crown of raven black hair, deep dark blue eyes and a round face with a button up nose – not unlike Daphne’s nose. The only similarity the two men shared were the expensive cut of their robes and the haughty air they both possessed. He leaned back into his seat, looking very much like he belonged here or were close friends with Lucius – neither were the case. Perhaps Mr Greengrass did think he belonged here. Or would belong soon enough. Draco greeted the man politely and dipped his chin in respect.

“Sit,” Lucius commanded, and dipped his head slightly in the direction of the chair next to Mr Greengrass’. _No thank you I prefer to stand._ If the words would only cross his lips. His mouth, however, refused to open; his vocal cords refused to make a sound and his lips were glued together. Lucius raised an eyebrow, lips tight, like he could sense the unspoken refusal ricocheting in Draco’s brain.

He sat.

_Okay, not the way I had planned, but I can still refuse. I will refuse._

“Time has come for you to perform your duty as a Malfoy, as a Pureblood,” Lucius said, his face not giving away any emotion. He might as well be cut in stone. _No._

Draco remained silent.

“Mr Greengrass and I have agreed upon a marriage contract,” _no_ “which will benefit both our families.”

“Indeed, and a very fine deal it is. You’ll marry a fine young woman, son.” It took every bit of self-control Draco possessed not to cringe.

Both Mr Greengrass and Lucius observed Draco, awaiting some sort of response, a tic. Something. The ice in his head stopped every nervous tic, every emotion from showing itself on his face. Lucius’ granite eyes bore into him, stopping the words from forming on his tongue. Draco wanted to take control of this situation, to refuse, to yell, to do _something_ , but still no sound emerged.

He damned himself and his cowardice. As he remained silent, Lucius leaned forward, folding his hands and resting his elbows on the desk. Lucius glared at Draco with his pale eyes, commanding him to speak, and he could see how tense he was: lips pressed together, jaw clenched, and his body stiff with tense muscle. He could discern a sinew in his throat, tight as a bowstring. Coiled and ready to strike. Like a snake. And Lucius Malfoy was venomous.

Seconds ticked by, marked by the old grandfather clock standing in the corner and the only source of sound in the room. He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. Draco cleared his throat prepared to challenge the silent command from his father.

He would refuse. He would tell him to go to Hell and take the contract with him. Refuse and be free. Refuse and take control over his own destiny. He would.

“I see,” Draco croaked instead. He let the ice spread even further.

Lucius slid a piece of paper across the desk. Draco just stared at it, trying to summon up the courage to refuse, to make his own demands regarding this miserable affair. But alas, he was no Gryffindor and bravery was not a trait he possessed (nor did he desire it under normal circumstances). And he had never been able to refuse Lucius. So ingrained in him, that he not disobey, not disappoint. Lucius was head of the family, the matriarch, the one whom decided and controlled. And Draco had been taught to obey and not ask questions. He picked up the quill and signed the contract, not even bothering to read the conditions. He would have no say anyway, no control over the content, no control over his life.

“Excellent. I believe this call for a toast, wouldn’t you agree, Lucius?” Mr Greengrass exclaimed, rubbing his hands together, looking like a smug cat with a bowl of cream. Draco was the cream, the key to (greater) wealth and influence.

“Certainly. Poppy,” a loud crack and the small elf stood in the study, her whole body shaking. “Fetch the Macallan.” He didn’t even glance at the elf as he commanded her, so easily it became him with no concern for the lives he commanded over. The small creature nodded and disappeared. A second later she reappeared, a bottle of golden scotch and three crystal glasses hoovering above her left shoulder. A snap with her fingers and a glass floated to each man in the room. Another snap and the glasses were filled. Poppy disappeared after that, leaving Draco in this snake pit. Lucius raised his glass, Mr Greengrass following suit.

“To the future,” he said in a smooth voice, clinking his glass with Mr Greengrass’ and then Draco’s. “To your future.”

Draco downed the scotch in one go. It burned its way down, leaving a trail of fire in his throat.

He had just signed his death certificate. Or so it seemed.

–––

Narcissa had scheduled a date with Daphne, they were to have lunch at _Le Colibri_ an expensive French rooftop restaurant located above Flourish and Blotts. The public “courting” was tradition in every arranged marriage. The couple was provided an opportunity to get to know each other and gave the public something to gossip about. Not that it changed anything. Even if they loathed each other, they would still have to marry. He didn’t look forward to this.

In fact, he would rather crawl into a hole and stay there. He didn’t want to be exposed in the public, nor did he want to spend time with Daphne. He certainly didn’t want to be married to her.

Draco glanced once more into the mirror. He’d opted for a simple suit in dark grey, tailored to fit him perfectly, and dark blue tie, trying to be less conspicuous in the neutral colouring. Draco tended to avoid black and green. Especially in combination. Adjusting the collar of his button up shirt, smoothing down his hair, he left his room. The eyes of his ancestors following him as he walked down the halls of his home, dragonleather shoes the only sound breaking the silence. The paintings all had their heads held high and some sort of approval etched in their faces. Abraxas Malfoy, his grandfather, who looked so similar to Lucius except the nose and hair, nodded as Draco walked past. He’d never known Abraxas, he having died a couple of years prior to Draco’s birth of dragon pox. His great-great-great-whatever-grandmother Solfrid Malfoy said something about keeping the bloodline clean, how he managed to do them proud. Another painting of a long deceased relative – he couldn’t remember his name, something with an E – rambled on about that soon, the manor would be roamed by new, pure wizards and witches. He didn’t listen.

“Draco, darling, you look dashing,” Narcissa said as Draco made his way down the grand staircase. With light steps she approached him. “Miss Greengrass is a very lucky woman.” She straightened his collar, brushing off non-existent grain of dust and smoothing down non-existent creases in the fabric with precise movements. Each and every of Narcissa’s movements served a purpose, she didn’t fiddle nervously.

“Thank you, Mother.” He didn’t know what to say to her.

Narcissa had never been to Azkaban, and it showed. Her face didn’t have the haunted shadow as Draco’s and Lucius’ did; her skin was unblemished, pale and perfect as marble. Her pale blue eyes, though flickering with things one shouldn’t have seen, didn’t cloud over with the heavy memories of having been locked away and trying to keep sane in an insane place. Narcissa wasn’t frowned upon as often as Draco when she ventured into Diagon Alley, she’d lied to The Dark Lord and saved The Chosen One – blasted Potter and the fucking glorification surrounding him – after all, such thing couldn’t be forgotten.

“This engagement is a wonderful opportunity, Draco.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Perhaps it’s difficult to see right now, but you have to trust your father that he knows what he’s doing.”

Draco wanted to laugh at that. Lucius’ excellent judgement had been the cause of their years of misery. The only thing holding him back from laughing in her face was the manners which had been drilled into him since he’d been able to walk.

“I’d best be going if I don’t want to be late.”

“Of course. I’ll see you at dinner.”

He pecked her cheek and left her standing where she was. He knew he was fleeing, but right now he didn’t give a damn, he just needed to get out of the manor, even if it meant that he would walk into the open arms of Daphne Greengrass. In seconds he stood in the manors entrance hall with the fireplace connected to the floo.

Draco grabbed the floo powder and, in a swift motion, he threw it into the hearth and let the green flames engulf him. A second later he stepped through the fireplace and into The Leaky Cauldron’s entrance hall. Brushing away the cinder from his suit, he quickly left. People around him grew quiet when they caught sight of him, some even pulled out their wands – and Draco didn’t want to linger and find out whether or not they meant to cast a jinx his way or if they only wanted the wand at hand lest _he_ start sending curses flying about the room.

A few moments later found him in Diagon Alley. The street was bustling with life. Already, people had started to stare, his blond hair a giveaway. Squaring his shoulders, he walked down the street, headed to Flourish and Blotts.

“Murderer!” some stranger hissed at him, as he walked by.

“Should have kept you in Azkaban,” a witch said.

Draco ignored it, ignored the slurs, the angry shouts, the sneers and pointing fingers, and the way people avoided him like he had dragon pox.

“Good afternoon Sir. Have you made a reservation?” a man in his late forties asked.

“Yes. Malfoy.” To the waiter’s credit he didn’t so much as blink. He shifted through the pages.

“Yes, of course. Right this way,” he said and turned around in a fluid motion. Draco followed the man out, revealing the dining area. Simple, yet beautifully carved, sets of tables and stools in mahogany filled the place, tables covered in white tablecloths and set with crystal glass and fine china, elegantly folded napkins, while a simple rose decorated the centre of the table. To protect the guests from the sun, shades were floating in the air. Pleasant music played in the background, relaxing piano tunes and violin danced in the air, mixed with the quiet chatter and noise of the utensils. The dining area was about half full. As the waiter led him to his table Draco noticed how quiet it got; the chatter had died, choked in the quests’ throats, the clatter of utensils stopped, the only noise remaining was the background music, no longer soothing it grated in his ears. The waiter showed him to a table in the middle of the room, and no, he couldn’t sit here, terribly exposed. He simply could not sit here. Draco shook his head and pointed to a table located at the edge of the dining area. The waiter simply nodded and led him to the table. Draco seated himself and asked for a glass of water.

And then the heated whispers broke loose; the words were indiscernible, but he knew without a shadow of doubt they were all talking about him. The mark on his arm burned, and he’d to restrain himself from touching it. It would only draw out outrage, he was sure, if he touched his arm; everyone knew where The Dark Lord marked his followers.

He could gaze down into the Alley, watching witches and wizards running errands and shopping; a brunette with a messy bun piled high on her head walking down the street heading towards The Leaking Cauldron, a blonde with short hair opening the door to Madam Malkin’s, a dark haired man exiting the Magical Menagerie with a brown owl in a cage, a couple getting ice cream from Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. He felt safe up on the rooftop, like a silent observer. They couldn’t see him, couldn’t pass judgement on him. He was safe.

He sipped his water as he waited. The sun was baking down, making him renew his cooling charms, even though he sat in shade. A glance on his watch told him that Daphne was running late. Not that he minded.

“Right this way, Miss Greengrass,” he heard a waitress say. Draco sighed, pulled forth the ice, and stood, preparing himself for the most uncomfortable dinner in years. He turned around, already prepared to greet her with a step forward, when he locked eyes with the woman approaching him, that it froze him, mid-step, the ice melting away as his concentration slipped through his fingers like fine sand.

Astoria. Not Daphne.

Astoria Greengrass bore no resembling with her sister. Were Daphne was short, Astoria was tall. Astoria had a narrow face with high cheekbones and full lips. She’d a straight, slightly upturned nose. Long, black hair cascaded down past her shoulders, a colour she’d inherited from her father, dark and rich. She’d a sway in her wide hips when she walked in the knee length dress with spaghetti straps with a deep blue colour making her skin look like cream. She’d long legs, slender, drawing in his gaze. He couldn’t help but compare her to Daphne. They were so unlike in appearances, except their eyes. Astoria had the same startling deep blue eyes as her sister. Astoria certainly fitted Draco’s taste better; she was stunning, able to turn heads when walking. He found himself immobile by shock and wonder. She arched a dark brow, and the action spurred Draco into motion, his many hours spent on etiquette finally kicking in.

He grabbed her dainty hand, small and thin in his hand, and placed a kiss on her knuckles.

“Astoria Greengrass. Pleasure to meet you,” she said in fine voice, reminding him of ringing bells.

“Draco Malfoy. The pleasure is all mine.”

She offered a small, tight-lipped smile.

Draco pulled out her chair for her and she sat. Her moves were so elegant. While she read the menu, she glanced up at him from time to time, and Draco found himself wanting to get to know this woman.

They ordered something light to eat.

“You look very beautiful, Astoria.” He was rewarded with a smile.

“Thank you. You look dashing as well.”

“I must confess, I don’t remember you from school,” he admitted.

“I do believe you’re three years my senior, it’s only natural we never crossed paths.” He nodded, finding her logic reasonable.

“How did you find Hogwarts?” It was a safe topic, something he knew they’d in common.

“Oh, Hogwarts was lovely, though things normalized when Harry Potter left school. He caused quite the stir; wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose,” Draco said, trying not to make a face at the mention of Scarface. 

She was elegant like Narcissa; every motion, every move of her hand, her head, her fingers, had a purpose, she was well mannered – as to be expected from a Pureblood witch – and her utensils never scraped against the china. She ate in small bites with her dainty, elegant movements. She’d a pretty laugh, fine and feminine, a laugh he found to enjoy.

This might even work.

–––

It didn’t work. At all.

In fact, it went to hell almost immediately. Astoria was beautiful, no doubt about that, but they had nothing in common. Draco liked Quidditch and magical history and potions, Astoria liked fashion and divination. They’d tried to find common ground the first couple of dates: had talked about school, dreams for the future, their family, common friends, only to find that the only thing they shared was the future which their fathers had decided for them. Deflected Draco had made no further efforts to know the woman. Not that she seemed to notice, she would talk about fashion when they had nothing to discuss, which was often, and Draco had resolved to Occlumency, as fashion was a topic he most certainly didn’t have the patience to listen to, forcing him to let the ice fill his veins and make his face a blank slate.

Even her laugh, the thing he’d initially liked, now felt forced – fake – and it grated in his ears and on his nerves. She was too much like Narcissa; her emotions never really shown, her manners an amour – or perhaps more like a shield? – she hid behind.

He realised she’d never been truly open, always acting like the perfect Pureblood witch. Not unlike how he acted, and it made him loathe her.

Conversations were stilted, doomed to die before they were even born, and Astoria would fill out the silence with the latest fashion trends. The exchanging of words were polite, but they were weighed down by their differences only adding to a tense atmosphere.

They sat in a pavilion located in the middle of the rose gardens at Malfoy manor, the air full of the sweet fragrance emanating from the rows upon rows of flowers. It was a warm day in the early August, not a single cloud on the sky and with a light breeze. Astoria wore a sunflower-yellow dress which went past her knees and sandals. She’d pulled her hair into a high ponytail baring her long neck and shoulders.

She stirred her tea, careful not the make the spoon clink against the china, in precise and rehearsed movements, always in control.

Elegant, he had thought of her the first couple of dates, now he found her to be fragile, too thin, like a gust of the wind could break her into thousands of pieces, and her hands, dainty he recalled, reminded him of bird with her long bony fingers with painted nails.

“The roses are lovely,” Astoria said as she placed the teacup and saucer on the table.

“Yes. The foundation of the rose gardens were laid by my great-great-grandfather Brutus Malfoy and finished by his son, Septimus Malfoy.” He didn’t need to scramble his brain for this information, it rolled of his tongue with no effort, delivered in a monotonous tone.

“I see.”

Silence.

A sip of his tea.

“Does the Greengrass manor have a rose garden?”

“It does,” a small sip, “it’s lovely, not quite as big as yours, but wonderful, nonetheless, I dare say.”

Silence. She crossed her legs by the ankles, Draco shifted in his seat. It was too hot, and with a flick of his wand he renewed the cooling charms on his dark blue suit. He gazed into the gardens, two silhouettes approaching. He couldn’t see who it was; they were too far away, but he recognised Narcissa’s graceful walk and the blond hair which caught the sun and reflected it back, making her a small beacon in the bright summer day.

“Mother wanted it.” Her voice his thoughts and he blinked.

“Pardon?”

“The rose garden.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“You have to see it sometime,” she continued.

“Of course.”

They both sipped their tea.

Narcissa had reached them, and Draco saw who accompanied her: Rita Skeeter. Narcissa was impeccable, as usual in her green dress and perfect hair. Rita, on the other hand, looked as though she’d just been riding a broom; her hair was escaping her updo, red rimmed glasses slightly askew. She wore an orange flannel skirt and matching jacket. He rose his feet.

“Mother,” he said as greeting and placed a swift kiss to her cheek. He turned to Skeeter. “Good afternoon, Miss Skeeter. It’s been a while since I last had the pleasure of your company.”

Rita blushed, mumbling something about how delighted she was to see him again as well. Rita was an old friend of Narcissa’s, and she was often the only one allowed to interview the proud Malfoy family.

“Mother, Miss Skeeter, this is Astoria Greengrass, my fiancée.”

Astoria stood, and Draco heard Rita gasp.

“Astoria, how nice to finally meet you,” Narcissa said as she stepped up to Astoria and kissed her cheeks.

“Mrs Malfoy, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I was just telling Draco how lovely your gardens are.”

“Thank you dear,” Narcissa said.

“Rita Skeeter, so nice to meet you, Miss Greengrass,” Rita said as she shook Astoria’s fragile hand, and for a split moment Draco worried it might break from the force of the shake. Rita didn’t give Astoria opportunity to answer, which was terribly rude. “Did you say fiancée, Draco?”

“Indeed. We’re to be married next spring,” he answered.

“How wonderful! Congratulations,” Rita said.

“Thank you, Miss Skeeter,” Astoria said, smoothing down her dress.

“Now, as I haven’t read anything about this betrothal, I’ll very much like to do the interview – don’t say a word dear, I know this must be overwhelming – but I insist. It would be an honour to do a report of your upcoming nuptial,” Rita said gleefully.

“What a wonderful idea, Rita,” Narcissa agreed, nodding her blond head.

“If you insist,” Draco complied. He fought the urge to shrug, Narcissa would not approve, he knew. A break of proper decorum.

“Oh I do. It’ll be a wonderful article, front cover, yes, nothing less…” a thoughtful glint in Rita’s brown eyes as she half-assured, half-mumbling to herself. She procured her wand, flicked it and then a notepad and her quick-scribbler appeared.

“I shall send for your photographer, Rita,” Narcissa said.

“Thank you dear,” Rita smiled, while Narcissa nodded and turned to leave. Rita turned to Astoria. “Miss Greengrass, how would you describe how you feel about marrying into the old Malfoy family?”

“Certainly. I’m very honoured to join the Malfoy family. It’s a very old, proud family with roots dating back several centuries.”

“Draco mentioned your upcoming wedding is to be in the spring as of next year. Have you started planning for the wedding?”

“Indeed, I have. Only small details so far, mainly flower arrangements and fabric samples.”

Rita continued to ask in the same manner; were Astoria and Narcissa going to join forces regarding the final decisions regarding the wedding, how did she find her future home, how did she find Draco and so on and so on. Rita then turned her attention to him, asking much the same questions. Draco answered politely, letting his aristocratic manners take control, complimenting Astoria for her grace and beauty, calling her a fine and worthy woman. What he didn’t say was, that she wasn’t for him, not if he had the choice to choose. But he didn’t, and he remained silent on the matter. All the while the scribbler scribbled away furiously, scratching against the paper.

“Are you planning on any vacation to get to know each other better?”

“I don’t think –” Draco started only to be interrupted.

“Indeed, they are,” Narcissa said from behind Rita.

“Is that so? Would you please elaborate?”

“They’ll be traveling to Italy, where they’ll stay for two weeks, a gift from Lucius and myself,” Narcissa answered politely.

“How delightful. Oh, Mason, there you are. You’re just in time for the picture,” Rita said, a syrupy sweet smile on her lips.

“Miss Greengrass, you sit… hmm… right here. And if you’ll just – yes, exactly, perfect. Draco, stand on her left side – no, you have to stand closer – and, closer, Draco, closer, yes, just like that. Now, place your hand on Miss Greengrass’ shoulder. Move your ring so it’ll be visible –” Rita continued to fuss over them. Astoria smoothed her dress. Narcissa placed a cup of tea at the edge of the table, no doubt to make a better picture.

“– absolutely perfect. Now, big smiles,” Rita said as the photographer snapped the picture, blitz blinding.

The article had front page the very next day.

___

It was pouring outside, heavy drops of water cascading down from the dark skies above. The earth couldn’t follow the mass of water, couldn’t drain it fast enough, and, as a result, the gardens had been turned into a mini pool with ankle deep waters.

It was the first rain to grace this part of the country in two weeks, and even though the elfs had made sure the garden was looking fine in lush green, the soil had dried out from the lack of rain and the harsh sun.

The weather beckoned for indoor activities, and thus Draco found himself perched on a divan in the library, a book in hands. Which suited him just fine, he wasn’t in the mood for company anyway and had told Poppy so.

He’d been reading for hours when he heard commotion downstairs. He heard Poppy’s outraged squeaking voice and a booming laugh he was too familiar with, the poor thing was no match compared the company which would soon be enforced on Draco. 

Seconds later the door slammed open.

“Draco, I’ve been looking all over for y – what the bloody Hell are you wearing?” The sound of steps halted a meter or so away.

Draco lifted his eyes from the page he was currently reading and found Theo starring at him like he’d sprouted a second head.

“What?” Draco glanced at his clothes; a dark grey suit and a tie, nothing conspicuous, but a fine cut nonetheless, classic even. He couldn’t see what had upset him so.

“That. On your nose.”

“Those would be reading glasses.” Theo rolled his eyes at him, like Draco was an idiot.

“Since when did you need reading glasses?”

“Since reading gave me a terrible headache and it was hard to focus on the letters.”

“You know, you kind of look like –”

“If you’re gonna say Potter, I’ll murder you in your sleep,” Draco glared at Theo.

“– Potter,” he finished with a shrug, not even bothered by the death threat. “Don’t sulk like that. You know who’ll cheer you up?” At Draco’s lack of response Theo continued. “Blaise. He’s always up for a good time.”

Theo walked to the fireplace, a joyful spring in his steps, and bent down, his head inside the green flames while his arse was on full display. Draco was sorely tempted to cast a stinging hex Theo’s way, only because the remark of bearing any resemblance with Potter was unbearable. Draco narrowed his eyes. It would be an easy target, Theo wouldn’t suspect it coming.

Draco had just decided, his hand already finding its way to his pocket where he kept his wand, his fingers touching the wood, when Theo ended the call and spun on his heels, facing Draco again.

“Blaise will be over in a few minutes, had to escort some witch out of the house or something like that,” Theo said while approaching the divan. “Move over, you’re taking up the entire space.”

When Draco made no effort to make room for him, Theo sat on his legs.

“Ugh, alright fine, move and I’ll make room.”

“That’s what I thought you said,” Theo said with a smug fascial expression.

The second Theo stood, Draco flicked his wand; transforming the divan into a comfortable armchair and conjuring two similar armchairs and a table.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Theo laughed.

“Because you didn’t take your N.E.W.T.S. and it shows,” Draco shrugged and received a smack for the comment. “Ouch.”

The fireplaced roared to life in green flames and Blaise stepped out of the flames. He dusted of the cinders and then stepped closer.

“I thought you said we would be having a good time,” Blaise said, “this doesn’t strike me as a good time at all. One of you look like shit and the other is turning into Potter.”

Draco scowled and Theo laughed out loud, slamming his on the shoulder. Draco grumbled under his breath and removed the glasses. How they could even spot any similarities between himself and the blasted saint, he couldn’t understand. For one, his glasses were square, not round. Second, he only wore them whenever he read.

“Shut up and sit down,” Draco said, still slightly pissed at the comparison, while offering the tall Italian a chair.

“You got me here by false pretences,” Blaise accused, addressing Theo.

“So?”

“If this turns out to be a bore you owe me,” he grumbled while settling into the chair.

“Whatever,” he said while waving a dismissing hand in the air. “So, how’s marriage life treating you?” Theo asked.

“I’m not married yet.”

“You sure are acting like you married, moping all day, not even bothering to give us a call,” Theo continued.

“Theo,” Blaise said in warning.

“I don’t understand why you’re in such a bad mood. Astoria’s gorgeous, and her body could make a blind man drool –”

“Cut it out, Theo,” Blaise said.

“– I mean, fuck, the sex has to be amazing. You could have ended up with a lot worse, mate.”

“Will you just shut up?” Draco said, not wanting to hear about Theo’s poorly disguised crush on the woman.

“Listen, all I’m saying is –”

“Theo, for the love of Salazar, shut up,” Blaise snapped, shooting daggers at Theo.

“Merlin, I need a drink, listening to the two of you is giving me a headache, and it isn’t even four in the afternoon yet,” Draco sighed. “Poppy.”

A second later and the elf appeared, a loud crack announcing her presence.

“Yest, Master? How can Poppy be of service?” her little voice squeaked.

“Would be so kind and fetch some – what do you want?”

“Niffler’s Treasure,” Theo said.

“That’s disgusting, Theo,” Blaise said. Theo scowled. “I’ll have firewhiskey.”

“Two firewhiskeys and a Niffler’s Treasure, please.”

The elf nodded and vanished with a pop.

“What’s wrong with Niffler’s?” Theo demanded.

“What’s wrong? Did I hear correct? What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong –”

“What isn’t is the right question,” Draco finished.

The cocktail was too sweet to suit Draco’s taste. He didn’t much like sweets, except caramel and chocolate on rare occasions.

Poppy appeared again, three glasses floating above her head; two with amber liquid and one with a light grey liquid, shimmering whenever light hit it the right way with whipped cream on top and sugar pearls drizzled on top. The elf snapped her fingers, and each got their drink.

“Poppy brought the bottle if Master wanted to have more,” the elf squeaked, wringing her ear in her hands.

“Thank you. Please leave it at the table.”

She did and then vanished.

They sipped their drinks and settled into comfortable silence, rain hammering against the window and a deep rumble far away.

“But seriously though, how’s Astoria? We haven’t heard from you ever since you got engaged,” Blaise asked, breaking the silence. Theo pretended to be disinterested by looking at his drink, though Draco could see the spark of interest in his blue eyes.

“Fine,” he shrugged, sipping his drink.

“Don’t play that shit on us, we’re not Crabbe and Goyle,” Theo said, taking great offense of his lie.

“Need I be reminded of them?” Draco sighed.

“Yes, because your excellent judgement preferred them as company over us,” Blaise said and downed the rest of his whiskey. He poured himself and Draco another glass. He downed the glass in one go, the trail of fire feeling rather good.

“Fuck you man.”

“Yeah, you wish,” Blaise said and Theo snickered.

“Astoria is… well. She’s beautiful,” he started. His glass was full again.

“But?” Blaise asked. Draco emptied his glass.

“But we have nothing in common. I’m bored out of my mind whenever we are together. We have no connection.”

“Does it matter?” Theo asked, his own glass empty. He reached for the bottle of firewhiskey.

“No. Yes. I guess.” His own glass had been filled. He downed it. “Why is it so wrong to want to marry someone you actually feel a connection with?”

“Nothing,” Blaise said while refilling their glasses. All three of them downed their drinks.

“Then why does Lucius act like I want to marry a werewolf?”

“Fathers,” Theo sneered.

“Leave me out of it. My father died years ago,” Blaise shrugged. “But, I did have several step-fathers. And if they are anything akin to real fathers, then I feel sorry for you two.”

“Thanks man,” Theo said, voice dripping in sarcasm.

“Don’t mention it,” Blaise grinned.

“To our fathers,” Draco said, holding his glass up. Blaise and Theo clinked their glasses with his.

The whiskey hardly burned on its way down.

“The Ministry came by the manor yesterday,” Theo told them, eyes already starting to glaze over, his gaze unfocused, as he stared down the remaining whiskey in his glass.

“What did they want? Wasn’t the manor cleared last year?” Blaise asked, careful to enunciate every syllable, refilling all of their glasses. Some of the liquid spilled over Theo’s glass and unto his hand.

“Careful man,” Theo grumbled, a slight slur in his voice, “you’re wasting good whiskey if you keep it up.”

“Poppy,” Draco called out. When she appeared a second later Draco asked for more firewhiskey. The elf silently complied. With refreshment secured, Draco fixed his gaze on the blurry Theo. “The Ministry?”

“They just arrived, demanding enthrace – entrice – ent – to be let in. Threatening me with Azkaban.”

“Why?” Draco didn’t trust his ability to construct longer sentences.

“Some Muggleborn dispearing – despairing – no, fuck, they can’t find the Muggleborn. Thought I had anything to do with it. Thought I was like my father,” Theo spat bitterly.

“Well fuck them then! Nott was a right prick – no, I’m not apologizing, and thank Merlin he died – no, Theo, let me finish, I’m deadly serious when I say, you’re better off without him,” Blaise said.

“Mate, I wasn’t trying to stop you,” Theo deadpanned.

“Good, now, let’s toast!”

At some point a tray of food appeared and they wolfed down the food, not even tasting what he was sure was a delicious meal, only to continue their drinking.

They ended up drinking themselves into a stupor.

–––

They left for Rome a couple of days later in mid-September. They travelled via floo.

International floo was expensive (a few hundred galleons when they arrived at the Italian Ministry’s department for foreign travellers – not that the Malfoy fortune would notice in any way) but by far the most comfortable way of travelling. Astoria had proclaimed that she hated travelling by portkey; it made her sick. And of course, they couldn’t upset her delicate stomach.

The summer had just ended, and the air was dry and warm still. The sun warmed the cobblestones under their feet. Astoria walked by his side as they walked towards the apparition point. The streets were full of people, Muggles most likely, all with olive coloured skin and shiny black hair or short grey hair. He spotted a girl with dark brown curls further ahead. Saw a man with no hair at all. But other than that, no one really stood out. Draco felt peoples’ eyes on him; he supposed he stood out with his white blond hair and pale skin, though he believed Rome was a place fancied by Muggle tourists as well. Besides his parents, Draco had never met anyone with the same complexion as him, so how could he expect the Italians to have met someone with such fair skin and hair? The staring made him anxious, like he hadn’t left England, and as easy as breathing he slipped into the ice.

Draco carried Astoria’s luggage; not that it was particularly hard as it was shrunken down and weightless, currently placed in his pocket, while his own was stored similarly in the left, though Astoria had brought significantly more luggage with her; two suitcases with extensive expanding charms, both filled to the rim with clothes and shoes. Draco had only brought one.

Finally reaching the corner and the apparition point, Draco offered her his arm, and her thin hand wrapped itself around his lower arm. He turned on the spot, feeling the apparition suck behind his navel and then the unpleasant feeling of being torn from all sides and simultaneously being pushed; the hard press around his chest. It only lasted a second; then he reappeared in front of their hotel with Astoria. She’d a small crinkle between her eyes; evidence of her discomfort. He guessed it made sense, that she wouldn’t like apparition either, the experience very similar to portkey, though the portkey added in the factor of dizziness and lasted longer; up to a minute if the distance between destinations were great enough.

“Are you alright?” he asked her.

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” she said as she released his arm.

He nodded and then went up the stairs, holding the door for her.

Their hotel was a high-end hotel located in the middle of the roman wizarding community; fine marble floors, expensive paintings, gorgeous chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, intricate details carved into the ceiling. House elves cracking in and out of existence; helping witches and wizards finding their rooms, transporting luggage from one place to another, cleaning the floor or dusting off the paintings. They all wore a bright red jacket, clean and neatly pressed, with gold hems. Not a single elf made eye contact. The lobby was mainly empty; only a piccolo stood behind a desk, dressed to impress, not a single crease could be seen.

They checked in and an elderly elf, a female, Draco guessed by the high-pitched voice, showed them their suite, which was located on the 13th floor. It was spacious and luxurious; the furniture were silk and mahogany, plush and comfortable, the floor was marble. Big windows overlooked the city, a wonderful view over the Coliseum. It had a grand kitchen; a house elf would make their breakfast – and dinner if they wished, though Draco preferred to dine out as Italian was one of his favourite cuisines. A dining table worthy of Malfoy manor was placed underneath a chandelier with crystals. A set of French doors led from the dining area into a balcony, big enough to have several people dining out there. The bathroom had a tub built in the floor, though Draco supposed it could be considered as a small swimming pool. A double bed with a canopy took up but a small part of their bedroom. Here too, there were French doors leading to a balcony, smaller than the one at the dining area but still spacious enough for two people.

As it was only early afternoon Draco wanted to start exploring this ancient city. Astoria on the other hand crinkled her nose; she wanted to look at the local shops. She was tired and had little energy. Draco complied, being the gentleman Narcissa had raised.

They went to one shop. Astoria spent hours there, trying on clothes and shoes while Draco was bored out of his mind. He couldn’t even bring himself to ooh and ah at the things she showed him, he could only muster an unintelligible hum.

Astoria wanted to continue shopping the next day much to Draco’s distress. He couldn’t persuade her to join him at the museum, she couldn’t persuade him to join her shopping. They instead agreed to do what they wanted and then meet up for dinner.

Relieved Draco wandered the city, taking in the sounds and smells. He kept to the wizarding part of Rome, not quite wanting to venture into Muggle Rome; the noises too loud from the things upon which they sat while transporting themselves. And they smelled horrid too. No, for now he would stay in known territory.

The main street of wizarding Rome was nothing like Diagon Alley. Where Diagon Alley was colourful and buildings leaning to one side or other; the Roman counterpart was kept in neutral colouring; sandy reds, light yellow and white, buildings straight very much the opposite of Diagon Alley, beautiful marble statues adorned the walls; some where Roman gods, others were classic Roman statues portraying important wizards and witches from old; a senator, the inventor of something or other.

He entered the museum. There were both locals and tourists. It wasn’t filled to the rim with people, a few here and there; some had blond hair, light brown hair, red hair and so on. He soon found himself absorbed in the sculptures, paintings, mosaics, vases, shields, pieces of metal with intricate carvings and ancient runes.

How fascinating the old Romans had been; having lived among the Muggles with no problems.

He had just finished translating some runes carved into an old coin when he looked up, trying to decide where to go next.

Ahead of him, standing in front of a piece of column, stood a woman. She wore a simple long-sleeved dress in a red colour with became her golden skin, ending just above her knees. She had shapely legs. But her hair was a mess; brown curls which seemed untameable, wild and riotous.

The crazy hair reminded Draco strongly of Granger. The last he heard – or rather read – was that she was engaged to Weasel. He hadn’t thought about her since the day Lucius had announced his betrothal to Astoria, when he’d paced his room in a flutter of nervous energy. But, apart from that day, he hadn’t thought about her in years. But this woman and her hair reminded him of her. How many people in the world had hair like her? Only a selected few, he mused, cursed with hair which had a life of its own.

Draco let his eyes wander, deciding to study a mosaic in rich colours. He lost track of time as he drank in the mosaic, trying to remember how each stone was placed, and how this exact placement was part of the bigger picture. He looked up, eyes dancing about the room, already searching for the next artifact to give up its secrets.

The wild haired woman still stood the exact same place. It must be very interesting judging by her lack of movements. Draco decided, he wanted to study the column next, already beginning his walk towards it.

The woman turned and Draco froze to the spot mid-step.

Of course Hermione _fucking_ Granger would be here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 25/1: I added some things I felt were lacking. Still working on the next chapter.
> 
> A/N 18/2: I added a bit in this chapter. Not much, but I recommend to reread the chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally I updated. Sorry about the long wait. 
> 
> I want to clear somethings out. --- means a shift in time, a day or more. Double distance between paragraphs are short shifts in time, hours or minutes. *** means a shift in POV.   
> I think this’ll be a Draco POV primarily, though Hermione will share her POV sometimes. 
> 
> I hope you’ll enjoy this instalment.

Their flat was a frightful mess. Clothes were sprayed everywhere, dishes from last night hadn’t been cleaned yet. The floor needed cleaning too, not to mention the dust needed to be removed. A bottle of firewhiskey still stood by their couch. It annoyed her to no end and she frantically tried to clean as much as possible. She’d been busy in the office trying to be up front with her paperwork resulting in her arriving home late, which caused her to have little energy to clean.

“Ron, are you ready?” She fought hard to keep er voice calm despite the growing irritation in her chest.

Ron had waited until the last minute to pack, even though she’d told him several times yesterday to start packing when he arrived home later than usual, excusing himself as being tired because a new case had just landed on his desk; some poor Muggleborn had disappeared. As a result, they were running late, their flight leaving in less than thirty minutes. Hermione despised this feeling. Her bag had been ready for several days.

“Yeah, just finished actually,” he said as he emerged from their bedroom, bags in tow, pecking her cheek.

“Brilliant. Then we’re ready to go?”

“Sure.”

She held out her hand for him to take, and, as his hand clasped hers, she turned on her heel, feeling the tug behind her navel which sucked them into the void. Seconds later they appeared outside the airport. The weather was dreary, the sun hiding behind heavy clouds full of rain.

Though it was still rather early, 9:30 in the morning, cars were everywhere, arriving, leaving, picking people up, dropping people off. Ron, who’d never seen an airport before, stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes full of wonder when the planes took off or landed.

“Mio –” his voice broke and he cleared his throat. “Mione, are we to fly in one of those things?”

“Yes.”

“Blimey. Is it safe?”

She laughed.

“It’s perfectly safe.”

“If you say so,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

She tugged him along, guided him through security, explained when he asked why certain things were there. They’d to conceal their wands with a Notice Me Not charm, lest they were discovered by Muggles.

Hermione was giddy with excitement, she’d never had the opportunity to travel to Italy, let alone Rome – Robert and Susan Granger had always preferred the French landscape – and she couldn’t wait to explore the ancient city. She expected it to be littered with ancient runes and secrets just waiting to be uncovered, just her and Ron. It would be perfect. Oh, if the plane would just take off so they could go!

“Oi, Mione, sit still, would ya? You’re making the plane tip over if you continue jumping in your seat like that.”

“Sorry, I’m just really excited for this. It’s our first vacation since we got engaged, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. It’s gonna be great,” he said and took her hand. He squeezed it, a squeeze she returned. Looking at him, she could how nervous he was. His blue eyes flickered, unable to find a point on which to land. He was swallowing several times, his breathing slightly quickened and shallow.

“It’s gonna be fine,” she said and kissed his hand. He offered her a tight-lipped smile in return.

Finally they landed. Ron was white as a sheet, all blood had drained from his face and his hand hadn’t let go of hers during the flight; it held hers in a vice grip, cutting of her supply of blood to her hand. When he finally let go, she rubbed her fingers.

“Merlin’s beard. How can you be afraid of flying a broom, but happily fly this thing?” he whispered with a hoarse voice.

“I don’t know. I just feel this is a safer option,” she shrugged, still rubbing her fingers.

“Safer? Are you fucking mad?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. This could easily turn into an argument.

“Let’s just get out of here,” she said, changing the subject entirely. Ron agreed and soon they left the airport behind them as they apparated to Muggle Rome.

They landed a few streets from their hotel, the weather completely different than in England. The sun was harsh, summer hadn’t lost it grip.

Their hotel was located perfectly, a short walk to magical Rome and short walk to great historic sights. They’d opted for a Muggle hotel, it was cheaper and could therefore extend their trip, though Ron had insisted on it being luxurious, they were celebrating their engagement after all.

It was grand; a tall white building with a beautiful and spacious lobby with polished stone floor. Small signs showed the way to the hotel restaurant. It even had a pool on the roof. She checked them in, and they quickly found their room on the eight floor.

Their room was spacious, had a large four poster bed with delicate pink draping. The sheets were white while the excess of pillows were kept in white and various shades of pink, matching the draping over the bed.

They had a French balcony overlooking the street below.

The bathroom, though not particularly big, it was big enough to contain a bathtub. Ron inspected it while changing his shirt. Hermione changed as well into a pair of shorts and a top, glamouring her arm. People, especially Muggles reacted poorly to it.

“I’m getting hungry. How about you? Should we find something to eat?” she asked while she unpacked. “I think I saw a small café from where we apparated to.”

“Yeah, lunch sounds great, I’m starving. Couldn’t we just eat here at the hotel? I mean, the restaurant is close, it’ll be quicker.”

Hermione pursed her lips. A hotel restaurant wasn’t exactly what she’d imagined, even if it was as nice as the hotel. She wanted to experience the authentic cuisine of Italy.

“I don’t know, Ron. Doesn’t it seem a bit tacky?”

“Who cares? We’re on vacation. Come on, Mione, it won’t hurt you,” he grinned at her as he emerged from the bathroom.

“I suppose,” she finally said after a long pause.

“Then let’s go,” he said and grabbed her hand.

The restaurant was as nice as the rest of the hotel; spacious, a bit stereotypical decor with its low lighting – not that it was a problem in the middle of the day as rich sunlight bathed in through multiple windows all facing the street, dark red walls, wine plant (made of plastic) at the entrance and over the windows, plaid tablecloth, the single light on the table with old stearin melted and hardened on the holder. It still provided with a relaxed and cosy atmosphere. Several other people were already dining, quiet chatter with foreign tongues filtered the air. They took their seat at one of the small table-sets in the middle of the room.

Eyes darting over the menu, trying to decide which overprized dish she wanted.

“Mione, what’s pizza?”

Sometimes Hermione forgot that Ron had never had pizza, it wasn’t a typical dish served in the wizarding world, and his family being quite poor, couldn’t afford to dine out or order in anyway. She simply smiled.

“It’s, uhm, it’s a thin dough with a tomato sauce and cheese. You can put filling on it too, like prosciutto, mushrooms and stuff like that,” she paused. “I think you’ll like it.”

He nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll try that then.”

She decided to settle on cacio e pepe, simple and a classic in Rome, or so she’d been told.

“So, I was wondering if you wanted to explore the Muggle part or the magical part of Rome first? They have these great ruins and monuments in the Muggle part, not to mention the museums, but the magical part has a greater number of museums with wizarding history dating back to a thousand years before the Romans settled here and –” she stopped talking as he was completely uninterested in what she’d said, his eyes glued to something to the left of her face. Turning in her seat, she spotted a television with a football she hadn’t noticed upon entering the restaurant match playing. “Ronald!”

“Hmm?” he blinked a couple of times, eyes focusing on her again.

“I asked you, if you would prefer to explore Muggle or wizarding Rome first after lunch,” she said with pursed lips.

“After lunch?”

“Yes. I don’t want to waste time, there’s just so much to explore.”

“Merlin, I’d counted on us to spend the day relaxing.”

“But I –”

“For fucks sake, Mione, we just got here. Can’t we just relax today? We could spend time at the pool, and you could read your new book?”

Hermione pressed her lips together in a thin line. It was his vacation too, she couldn’t dictate their programme, he should have a say as well. It would only be fair – he’d saved as much money as she’d.

“I didn’t bring my swimsuit,” she sighed.

Sensing her defeat, he grinned at her.

“So? You can transfigure some of your underwear.”

She needed to glamour the scar from Dolohov as well.

Hermione couldn’t concentrate on her book. She’d packed it for some reading before bed, not so she could waste an entire day. It wasn’t meant to be read by a pool. She found it hard to sit still, her muscles full of energy which was barely contained, her mind kept jumping to the museums she was supposed to explore. Ron, however, enjoyed their day of relaxation as he’d found the bar and then, to his utter delight, was told they’d paid for free bar during the whole length of their stay when they’d booked their vacation.

Sloppy kisses on her neck and clavicles. His hands roaming her body, pushing the dress she’d chosen to wear when walking to and from the pool area up, exposing her stomach, the glamour still in place.

“Mmm, Mione…” he whispered against her skin. He found her lips, his breath heavy with alcohol.

Pulling her dress off, removing her bikini top, pulling the bottom down she was naked, and his hooded eyes roamed her body, hungry and wanting.

He pulled back in order to remove his own clothes and his mouth came crashing down on hers, teeth clashing with hers.

His thrusts were hard, unprecise, made sloppy by the alcohol in his blood. It didn’t last long, he came with a grunt only to collapse a second later.

His snoring quickly filled the room.

–––

“Bloody Hell, turn that shit off!” Ron grumbled angrily as her alarm went off.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes while turning it off.

She turned on the light and he winced, taking in a sharp breath, screwing his eyes shut.

“Can’t you turn off the light? My head is killing me.”

“I just need to get ready. I’ll find you a Pepper Up potion and something for the pain.”

“Just let me sleep,” he grumbled in a sharp tone.

“But, we’re supposed to start exploring today –”

“Hermione, please, I just want to sleep.”

“You promised, and I –”

“Can’t you just fucking go without me then?” he snarled, burying his head under the pillows.

The force which she used to close her mouth made her teeth clatter. Tears pressed as disappointment and hurt welled inside of her, but she forced them back. She bit her lip and found her something to wear. A knee length dress in dark blue with short sleeves. Her hair she piled on her head in a messy bun.

She grabbed her beaded bag, the one with the undetectable expanding charm, where she kept a notebook and pencil.

Hermione left a note, stating she expected to return around eight, where she expected to eat dinner with him.

She spent the day browsing a small museum, specialised in old scripts, in wizarding Rome. She would start exploring there, she’d decided, and she would finish with Muggle Rome by the end of their trip. She scribbled down notes in her notebook furiously, translating runes and signs, interpreting small figures. On a scroll from the 12th century, she recognised the symbol of The Deathly Hallows, chills running down her spine. More than once she turned to her side, mouth already open to say something to Ron, only to feel a pang of disappointment as she remembered he’d wanted to stay at the hotel.

She’d ate a wonderful lunch at a small place located in a side alley to the main street, which was leagues better than the food at the restaurant at the hotel. It simply tasted more fresh, was better seasoned. The menu didn’t have an English translation which she found to be a good sign as it meant locals typically ate here.

She returned to the hotel at eight, expecting to find Ron waiting for her outside, so they could find something to eat. The street was full of people, but she couldn’t spot his signature red hair.

_Perhaps he’s in our room… I didn’t tell him where to meet me._

Sighing she made her way to their room.

“Ron, are ready to find something to eat?” she asked into the room as she opened the door. Silence was all that met her; the room was dark and empty. Furrowing her brow she pursed her lips.

_He better not be at the pool._

He wasn’t there either. Irritation bloomed in her stomach, setting a hard line on her lips.

She found him the hotel restaurant, already gobbling down his food, pizza, it appeared from this distance. A beer, half-empty, stood in front of him.

“Oi, ‘rmione,” he called as he saw her. She approached the table, seeing his dinner indeed was another pizza. “You’re la – late, ssso I orhdered,” he paused, taking a gulp of his beer. She pursed her lips in displeasure. She’d thought they would dine out.

“Late? I stood outside the hotel waiting for you for ten minutes and spend another ten minutes searching for you,” she couldn’t keep the sharpness out of her tone.

“Outssside?” he slurred. “Why – why would you be outssside?”

“I was under the impression we would dine out tonight.”

The waiter approached and she placed her order.

“Sssorry, ‘Miohne.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” she dismissed, but deep inside she knew she was lying to herself. It did matter. She didn’t want to eat at the same place every day. She’d wanted to be fascinated by Rome with him.

The third day in Rome was a repeat of the day prior: Ron snapped at her to just go as he was hungover, Hermione explored Rome by herself and eat an amazing lunch somewhere new, they would eat their dinner at the hotel, he would pass out and snore until the next day.

The moment Ron fell asleep, Hermione wept.

The fourth day, Hermione decided, would be different.

She wore her a red knee length dress with long sleeves, leaving her hair to live its own life. She left a note stating she would be back at ten, that he should just eat without her.

She’d decided, that even though Ron didn’t want to share this experience with her, she would make the most of it.

***

He couldn’t move.

Deafening screams ricocheting in his brain. He felt warm, the cooling charms no longer effective. His clothes constricted him, his tie tightening around his neck making breathing difficult. The ground started to wobble; he was sure he could fall flat to his face any minute.

And the scream continued in his head; piercing through his ears, shattering his eardrums, so full of fear and pain.

He blinked, and then he stood in a living room with long shadows, dark and cold, with him standing by the fireplace, Lucius and Narcissa standing on either side of him, a perfect view of the room. Bellatrix, a whirlwind of insanity, cackling menacingly while a thin – too thin, like she hadn’t eaten properly in months – girl with a mess of a hair writhed on the marble floor, screaming her lungs out as her limp convulsed in pain. Bellatrix stopping the spell, asking questions followed by more screams. A hoarse and broken voice begging the insane Bellatrix to stop, that she knew nothing of a vault. And then Bellatrix had a knife in her hand, throwing herself over the crying girl, carving something in her arm with crude letters. Blood, blood on the white marble floor, dark and thick. So many screams. And he’d just stood there, watching her get mutilated and tortured, immobilized by fear and Occluding.

Another blink, and he was back in the museum, staring at Granger’s profile, feeling sick as bile rose and his pulse thundered in his ears, his blood turned cold.

He fled.

He knew he behaved like a coward, but he needed to get out. Needed to get away from her and the memories she provoked, the screams she made

Once outside he sagged against the wall, warmed by the sun, though the heat couldn’t seem to heat him up. He Occludded, heavily at that, ice spreading from his head to his fingertips, while he tried to control his breathing.

He felt people stare, odd looks thrown his way, but he ignored them. He rejoiced in being unknown here; nobody knew him, nobody knew of his crimes. Had this happened back in England the papers would have a feast of his breakdown, they would be swarming him like vultures.

_What the fuck is she doing here?_

It was the shock of seeing her here, the sudden and unexpected way she was in his face; what were the odds of her being in Rome at the same time he was? And even more so, the odds of them being in the same museum at the same time? Astronomical small. Had he been Diagon Alley he was better prepared for such an encounter; he always walked the cobbled street of Diagon Alley with ice, always prepared to meet someone from school, always blocking out the disdain from others. But he hadn’t thought it necessary here; no one knew him here. He’d thought he was safe from these concerns here.

Apparently not.

It mattered very little now; now he knew she was here, now he was prepared if he should run into her again. Next time wouldn’t be like this. Next time he wouldn’t get caught up in memories, next time he would be able to Occlude immediately, like the time at Hogwarts for his seventh and final year.

Once in control of himself he straightened, brushing off non-existent dust from his suit. He cast a Scourgify just in case he’d gotten his back dirty by sagging against the wall.

He renewed the cooling charm, the sun baked down on his black suit.

_This museum is not an option the next couple of hours… then where to? What was next on my list?_

He walked away from the museum. He knew of an art gallery not so far from his current position. He could return tomorrow to where he’d just been, to finish exploring. He hadn’t even managed to cover half the museum.

Soon he found himself in front of the art gallery.

Almost nobody was there, completely devoid of people with the exception of a few witches, admiring a beautiful painting in the impressionist style from an artist he wasn’t familiar with. Experience told him, that not many people enjoyed art. However, he’d always loved art: something about losing himself in a painting or sculpture had always spoken to him.

He spent the rest of the day in the gallery – apart from a small lunch break where he found a small café overlooking the street, watching people as he enjoyed his pasta and local white – walking from one masterpiece to the next. Da Vinci had a few of his pieces on exhibit, Michelangelo as well, various unknown artists in various styles, some he enjoyed quite a bit, other were a bit. Paintings, sculptures.

Time flew by, and soon a soft voice announced the gallery would be closing in fifteen minutes. It pulled him out of the painting he’d been absorbed in. Reluctantly, he left the gallery, promising himself he would return before returning home.

The sun was setting and the sky was darkening above him; the air had turned cooler though it was still warm and pleasant. Many restaurants tried to lure in people from the street; the delicious smell from the kitchens greeting him as he walked past. Some places had guests enjoying glasses of wine and antipasti. Some restaurants had floating candles reminding him strongly of Hogwarts, others had enchanted the shading to show a starry sky.

He greeted Astoria with a peck on her cheek. Today she wore a two-piece set, not the one she’d initially worn this morning, of a creamy white pencil skirt with a matching jacket and an emerald green top underneath. Her hair was spun into an elegant updo at the nape of her neck, also different from this morning. She wore classic stilettos. Her lips were painted red. She was holding several shopping bags.

“Allow me,” he said and grabbed the bags. He cast a featherlight charm on them, not that they were heavy in any way, but there was no need to strain himself unnecessary.

“Thank you.”

He guided her to a restaurant, different from yesterday, with floating candles and classic music in the background, with his free hand on her lower back.

He helped seat her.

“How was your day?” she asked while browsing the menu.

“Fine, thank you. I went to an art gallery.”

Could they have a meaningful conversation? He hoped so. So far they hadn’t.

“Mhm,” she hummed and he was sure she sounded interested, truly interested, and not the polite hum he’d grown accustomed to whenever she feigned interest. So much like Narcissa, proper Pureblooded breeding, Lucius would say. He despised it.

“They had some beautiful pieces from some unknown artist, primarily impressionism, post-impressionism and classical art,” he tried.

Another hum, but her eyes remained on the menu. He supressed a sigh. Clearly she didn’t have an interest in art either.

“How about your day?”

“Oh, Draco, it was wonderful! I found this little boutique with the loveliest jewellery, I couldn’t help myself, I just had to buy some. They’ll go perfectly with the clothes I bought yesterday, not to mention the shoes I found as well. Oh Rome, is such a lovely city. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Though for completely different reasons, Draco agreed.

–––

The next day he spotted her several times.

In a crowd, where she stood in line to order gelato, her nest of a hair a dead giveaway now that he knew she was here.

The ice spread in his veins of its own accord, freezing out the memories of her on his floor.

He snuck past the que; eyes glued to the back of her hair in case she should get the brilliant idea to take in her surroundings. He didn’t munch fancy running in to her and feeling obliged to say hello: he’d nothing in common with the witch anyway, nor did he want to.

She was at the exhibit with the columns containing fascinating runes and intricate depictions of rituals. He spotted her, deeply absorbed in translating some runes, scribbling in a notebook. He hid behind a column, already Occluding. He left the exhibit, keeping the ice in place.

He spotted her entering a café he’d planned to pay a visit himself, making him turn on his heels and walk the other way, the ice hadn’t even left his veins. He found somewhere in the other end of the street to eat.

Fucking Granger was ruining his vacation, not being able to relax, always having to be on guard and prepared to let the ice come forward, existing but not living in the moment. He couldn’t seem to be rid of her, her bushy hair like a curse following him around, tormenting him with memories of screams and agony.

It was tiresome, and he’d managed himself a headache a few hours past lunch. A consistent throb behind his eyes. He’d been Occluding for six hours, it wasn’t healthy, wasn’t normal to Occlude for this long. He retracted the ice, feeling his mind thaw, sighing in relief.

He’d spent the entire day running away from her, barely even enjoying what Rome had to offer. Not a notion he was proud of. With a Point-Me he concluded the bushy haired witch was not nearby, he entered an exhibit.

He lost himself in there between relics of old; daggers, swords, armour, shields… all with beautiful depictions of the Roman deities and runes. He forgot his surroundings as he drank in the knowledge some of these items possessed and felt at ease.

***

Sighing heavily Hermione moved on to the next object to inspect.

Her eyes locked on a bronze shield in the middle of the room. Already she could spot runes, her curiosity flaring at the sight of it. She left the collection of small daggers behind and wound her way through the small crowd to the shield.

The shield indeed had several interesting runes, beautiful carvings of the Roman deities of war Mars and Minerva who were depicted in the top of the shield overlooking a duel between two men, one in Roman uniform, the other was most likely Germanic based on his attire, and the landscape around them visibly marked by their strong magic. A small text was at the bottom of the shield she would have to crouch in order to see properly. Once in position she began translating. The text told the story of an important Roman general, a powerful wizard, who led a campaign against the uncivilized Germanic tribes. One of these tribes

She noticed the man on the other side of the glass display the second she straightened up again, as he was hard to miss really, seeing as everyone around her had dark brown or black hair, his hair was a beacon amidst all the darkhaired people, luring her eyes to him like a moth to a flame.

Draco Malfoy stood on the other side; a dreamily look on his face and seemingly relaxed, even a smile playing at the corner of his pleasant looking lips. He hadn’t noticed her yet, those pale eyes of his, so similar to Lucius’, were glued to the bronze shields the glass display protected.

She hadn’t seen him in years, not in person anyways as he’d been on the cover of The Prophet a little over a month ago. Hermione seized the opportunity to really look at him. He’d outgrown the pointiness his face previously possessed, now being more oblong with a square jaw which only enhanced his high cheekbones. He rested his chin in his hand, his long fingers tapping as he was deep in thought. She’d quite forgotten how tall he was, not that she was particularly tall herself (on the contrary, being only 1,57 metres). He kept his hair short, shorter than when they’d attended Hogwarts. It became him, and she found the years had been kind to him.

Should she say hello? Would he want that?

As if sensing he was being watched his eyes snapped up and found hers immediately. It only took half a heartbeat for him to recognize her; the almost smile vanished, the dreamily expression faded into nothing, his arm dropping down to his side. His chin was still a bit pointy.

_Guess I have no choice but to say hello now… he caught me ogling him._

She felt warmth tingling in her cheeks.

She walked around the glass, the frame hiding him from her line of sight for the shortest second, and, when he reappeared, it was a different man standing in front of her. Gone where the open face and eyes. A marble statue had replaced him; no emotion visible on his face, his eyes cold as ice.

“Uhm, hi,” she said, very unsure as what to say to him.

“Granger,” he replied tonelessly while dipping his chin in greeting, acknowledging her presence.

They stood in awkward silence, an unpleasant tension building up between them, thick enough to cut.

_Great… now what? Think, that’s your strength._

“Congratulations on your engagement.” It seemed like the safest topic, and he’d always been vain back in school. She didn’t think it’d changed.

He raised a pale eyebrow. His pale grey eyes remaining blocks of ice as they regarded her with little interest. His gaze weighed upon her like a silent judgement.

“Keeping tabs on me, huh Granger?”

“Please. It was hard to miss with the news of your engagement being on the front page and all,” she sniffed.

“If you insist,” he shrugged like he didn’t believe her. She narrowed her eyes at him. “I suppose I should congratulate you as well, engaged to Weasel.”

“Keeping tabs on me, Malfoy?” she flung the question back at him out of spite, childish she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t appreciate him calling Ron Weasel.

“It was hard to miss. News of your engagement reached the second page,” he deadpanned. Hermione scowled at him.

“I suppose she’s here?” She craned her neck, trying to spot the dark-haired beauty she’d seen on the front page.

“No. Astoria doesn’t find museums interesting.”

“What a shame. Rome has some of the finest exhibits,” she sighed, and even she could hear how dreamily she sounded. Not that she cared, it was true what she’d said.

“Not that this haven’t been fun, but I’ve got other plans,” he said in

Neither said goodbye, silently offering a nod before turning on their heels and walking in different directions. Hermione had spotted an old amour she was already dying to get a closer look at.

Hermione ate her dinner in the Muggle part of Rome, down a side alley as she was returning to their hotel. She found it to be the best food she’d had while in Rome.

Ron grabbed her the second she entered their room, kissing her with hot open-mouthed kisses. His breath smelled heavily of alcohol.

“’Mione… ‘ve missed you.”

“Ron, I’m not in the mood,” she said as she stepped out of his embrace.

“Wha – what do you mean ‘not n the mood’?” he slurred, blinking at her. His eyes were glazed over, eyelids dropping. Stepping out of her clothes, she offered Ron her hand.

“Come,” she said, and he took her hand. She led them to the bed, settling in and Ron cuddled into her side, head resting on her bare chest.

“You’ll never guess who I encountered today,” she said quietly.

“Who did you meet?” he mumbled in her skin.

“Draco Malfoy.”

“Fucking ferrrret.” She made a noncommittal hum.

Ron drew small circles over her skin.

While kissing her skin she stroked his flaming hair, humming the tune Mrs. Granger always had while cocking. A sweet little tune, one she associated with her childhood, safe, happy, and uncomplicated.

Ron fell asleep, his breathing deepening.

Still, she hummed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone reads my other story, you’ll know how much I hate writing dialogue. For those of you who doesn’t: I really hate writing dialogue. I find it so difficult to flow naturally. And this proved extra challenging with Ron being drunk… 
> 
> Thank you for reading


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